Twice the Man
by G.E Waldo
Summary: Wilson/House centric. Paranormal-ish. Episodic, sort of. Implied character death. Wilson suspects there is something very wrong with House.
1. Chapter 1

TWICE THE MAN

Summary: Wilson/House centric. Paranormal-ish. Episodic, sort of. Implied _**character death. **_Wilson suspects there is something very wrong with House.

Pairing: House/Wilson _**Bro**_mance.

Rating: General. Some

Disclaimer: Gregory House is not mine, dammit!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_**Time goes, you say? No. Time stays, we go.**_

_Austin Dobson_

_-_

_-_

_-_  
"House."

House swung his chair around one hundred, eight degrees and saw -

No one.

At that moment Wilson appeared in the entryway to Houses' office and swung the door open, displaying in his shifting feet all the uncertainty of whether or not he should come all the way in or leave half of himself lurking in the hallway.

"How'd you do that?" House asked.

"I pushed and the door opened. It was really quite startling."

"Wow. That could have been funny somehow."

Wilson finally decided, with uncertain tippy-toe steps, to bring his self into the room. He stood before Houses' cluttered desk and stared down at him.

House bristled at the silent scrutiny and checked out the top of his work space, wondering if a big black spider had crawled up and was busy spinning a nest in his pencil holder. "What are you looking at?"

His own desk struck such a contrary chord compared to Wilsons' own retentive, neat as the proverbial pin work-space, the two could hardly have been more different. Kind of like he and Wilson. "You're not here to clean, are you?" At Wilsons' puzzled look, "'Cause I've made my messy little bed and I like it this way."

Wilson ignored that and sat down, being careful not to rest an elbow on the clutter of pencils and papers. Doing nothing, in fact, to disturb Houses' untidy domain. "I've got a case for you." He said.

House turned back to killing enemy mutants and spoke without looking back at his best friend. "If it's someone riddled with tumors, the oncologist department is around the corner. I hear he's maladjusted and not a particularly good specialist, but those big brown eyes - _watch out_!"

Without missing a heart-beat. "Exactly. He was the top in his class in sexy brown eyes. This patient, though, does not have cancer and I need your help. As a favor? You know? Friends do occasionally do those things for each other. For instance, the sexy eyed doctor buys you lunch almost every day."

House turned reluctantly from his video game. "Fine, fine," He reached with an impatient hand, "give me the file."

Wilson spread his hands. "I don't actually have a file."

"Does this "patient" perhaps have the Clap?" House spun his chair back to the mutants frozen on the screen. One was goring another with a machete in a bright spray of blood. "Doxycycline twice a day for a week and your," House pointedly glanced at Wilsons' crotch area, "little "patient" will clear right up."

"It's not me, House. Can we just use the whiteboard please?"

"You must be running low on bald kids." House grabbed his cane. "And so you're going to make _me_ walk."

Wilson rolled his eyes and followed House into the conference room. "Yes, I know it is twenty feet away. Sorry for the terrible inconvenience."

Hooking his cane over the top of it, House stood in front of his whiteboard, black marker in hand. "Symptoms?"

Wilson recited while House wrote: "Weakness in the left arm, tingling in the feet, dizziness and upset stomach."

House stared back at him. "That's it?"

Wilson looked sheepish. "So far."

"That's ridiculous."

"House, this is important. I'm doing this as a favor and it really has to remain between me and you - and _him _of course. This guy has always been perfectly healthy. The symptoms presented suddenly - he wants to know if there's any reason to worry. And before you suggest it, it's not the flu', diabetes, psychosomatic, lymphoma or any type of cancer."

House took him seriously for a moment. "Okay. Weakness in the left arm suggests heart. Tingling in the feet, dizziness and upset stomach confirm."

"It's not his heart."

"Have you?-"

"-Yes. Heart and lungs are healthy. Circulation's normal and no arterial plaque."

"Hmm. Then there's a neurological component."

"Symptomatic of what?"

House said with exaggerated irritation, "You want me to guess? If I knew what it was, I'd have written _that_ down too."

Wilson crossed his arms, hugging his tightly wound presence. "Can you please surmise what it _might_ be then?"

"Emotional stress."

Wilson stared at House for a moment. Obviously the thought had not occurred to him. "You really think that's all it might be?"

"What's so surprising? If he's a high pressure exec', and I'm assuming he is, in the absence of any other symptoms, it's the most likely diagnosis."

Wilson nodded. "Okay. Well, that's good." He stood straighter. "Are you _sure_?"

Houses' forehead wrinkled, sniffing a mystery and hidden clues. "Who is having these symptoms? Do I know this mysterious stranger? Does _she_ have lovely boobs?"

Wilson nodded. "No, _he _doesn't and I already said I can't say. He was upset so I'm doing him this favor. End of story. Are you fishing for a check?"

"About the symptoms?"

"Sorry?"

"He was _upset_ about the symptoms or just upset?"

"Yes to both." Wilson turned to go with a satisfied sigh. "Thanks House. I appreciate it."

"It was hardly a mystery. But your mystery friend _is_ a mystery. I thought I was your only friend?"

"No. You're my only friend who is a complete conundrum. You're not my only friend."

"I'm the only one who counts."

Wilson did not dispute it.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" House narrowed his eyes. "You smell like a lie and that means I'll have to find out what you're lying about. You can't stop the tide under a full moon or me when you're being frustratingly and, by the way, unconvincingly inscrutable."

Wilson sighed on his way out. "I know. I love you too House."

House called after his friend. "By the way, no more sneaking around. It's creepy."

Wilson turned back, shrugging one shoulder and ignoring the mild insult. "It may not have been a mystery to you but it was to me, so thanks. And that last thing you just said, whatever it meant - sure. Whatever you say."

-

-

-

House popped his head in Wilsons' office the following Monday. "I have a problem."

Wilson abandoned the magazine article he was reading. "Oh? What kind of problem?" He waved House to his visitors' chair. "And where were you all weekend?"

House sat and bit his lip. "Did you get your last pay check? And I was delving."

"Yes. Why? Didn't you get yours? And delving into what?"

"Of course. Deposited it already. Delving into your latest mystery."

"You got your pay? So why-?"

"-I just wanted to make sure you had money for lunch."

"You could have asked. And what _mystery_? - why my Dry-Cleaner keeps bleaching out my shorts until they disintegrate?"

"You could have lied. No. And they do that because it's cheaper for them if they don't have to separate the whites into a bleach and non-bleach wash."

"I don't lie to you, House, I just don't always tell you everything. Unlike some people I know who not only lie to me but never listen to a word I say. I'm changing Dry-Cleaners."

House tapped his cane on the carpet. "I listen to everything you tell me, Wilson, and I answer too. I just rarely _do_ everything you tell me. Or care."

Wilson slipped on his doctors' jacket. "Or ever, actually. And so you keep saying but I don't believe you."

"You've become so cynical since you figured out you still love me." House stood. "If I wasn't such an uncaring jerk, I'd be worried. So - lunch?"

"Yeah."

At the door, House turned back, making Wilson nearly run into him. "By the way, how's your friend?"

Wilsons' eyes shifted around a little. "Friend?" Wilson glared at House to leave no doubt to whom he next referred. "Annoying as hell but that's part of his charm."

House narrowed his eyes. "Don't try to be clever, Wilson, you'll hurt yourself."

Wilson chuckled and followed House out into the hall. He hadn't forgotten the death of Houses' father only a few months before and Houses' concussion and cracked skull only weeks before that. House and he had not talked about either, or about Amber, since that time, but he was glad Houses' health appeared to have returned to something in the ball park of okay. Still, "Are you all right? You've been acting a little oddly."

But House was already several steps ahead of him down the hall and on his way to the elevator. When foods' sweet siren called, House answered with his whole stomach.

-

-

-

House answered his apartment door by yelling, recognizing the knock. "Use your key."

"Can't. Don't have it with me." Wilson said from his door-step.

"Well, why not?" House shouted back, pushing himself to his feet from his comfortable slump on the couch. He unlatched the dead-bolt and let Wilson pass into the room. He was still in his work clothes. "Don't you ever relax?"

Wilson walked into the room but declined Houses' offer to sit with a head shake. "Long day and some of us actually make a distinction between work and leisure."

"Which is why everyone but me is so uptight." House waved a hand to a chair. "Take a load off."

Wilson didn't sit. "Can't stay."

House eased his weight back into the soft couch cushions. "Something up?" He picked up the television remote and promptly dropped it.

"You were going to watch television while we talk?"

House rolled his eyes and left the remote where it lay. "This is going to be one of _those_ talks? Can we save it for a less annoying day? I've got some time in Twenty-Seventeen I'm not going to be using plus I'm pretty sure I haven't almost killed a patient lately or stolen your credit card again, so there's nothing to talk about."

"_Again_? You've stolen it before?"

House pursed his lips for a second, then shook his head. "No. I was just testing your reflexes. What's up?"

Wilson rubbed hands over a tired looking face. His eyes were bloodshot and darted this way and that. "He's got a new symptom."

"Your mystery friend? I'm not convinced he's actually real, you know? I'm pretty sure you're just trying to screw with me."

Wilson shook his head. "That's preposterous." When House just stared back, "Okay, maybe not so preposterous. But you've screwed with me plenty of times so by all counts I _ought_ to be screwing with you, only I'm not."

House cracked a beer. "Fine. I won't factor in your reputation for now. What's the new symptom?"

"He's dropping things."

"Neurological component, like I said. Genetic. Huntingtons, CP, MD, MS - there are a dozen more."

Wilson paced with carefully treading feet.

"I sense an imminent confession." House remarked.

"He doesn't know he's sick."

House stared at his friend. "Is this your brother maybe? This isn't your _dad, _is it?"

Wilson rubbed his face. Now he appeared glued to the hardwood as motionless as a wood carving. His jaw moved. "I can't say."

"You've observed these symptoms but he hasn't? So he _didn't_ ask you to come to me?"

"No. And he has noticed that he's having problems but he's dismissing them as normal signs of aging, fatigue, stress, but I know it isn't any of those."

House drained his beer and sat forward. "If you want me to diagnose your friend, get him to come in."

"He won't. Even if I told him my suspicions, he wouldn't believe me at this point."

"Then what do you expect me to do?"

Wilson paced a little. "What if,...what if I brought you some samples? Blood, nerve tissue, brain-"

"_Brain_?" House was almost amused. "You're somehow going to get a sample of his brain without him noticing?"

"DNA then. Just leave it up to me. If I get the samples, will you test them? No one will happier than me if they prove negative on all counts."

House knew intimately his friends infinite range of emotions and the meaning behind the tiny nuances of his facial expressions and those expressions were not telling the whole story. "But you do think something's wrong."

Wilson nodded once. "Yes."

House sat back, lifting his tired leg onto the coffee table. "Okay."

"Okay? Really? You'll help me?"

"If I said okay, I mean okay."

"And you're not going to follow me around? Dig in my garbage? Hide a camera above my toilet or perhaps install listening devices under my mattress?"

House shook his head. "Nope."

"Thank-"

"-_Unless_ I find out you've been lying to me, then all of the above and much, _much_ worse."

When he wanted to, Wilson had a charming smile. "Fair enough."

"You're using your patented smile." House observed. "Now that is suspicious but it still isn't going to get you in my pants."

"Darn." Wilson declined a beer and went home.

-

-

-

By the time House arrived at work one morning two days later, Wilson had already obtained the samples and left them on his desk. House read the labels: "W. Phrend." House muttered to the man not present. "Like no one's going to see through that, you idiot."

Wilson entered just as House was settling himself down with his first cup of coffee. Wilson walked to his desk and dropped a file. "Case for you. She doesn't have cancer and Chase has no idea what's wrong either."

House nodded and swept the file into the garbage can. "I got the samples."

Wilson said, "What samples are those?"

House winked. "Oh - right. Mums the word. I already have a case, idiot."

"Sorry." Wilson retrieved the file form the garbage can, tucking a few stray papers back into their manila home. "Weren't we supposed to have breakfast together this morning? We always do on Wednesday."

House sipped his coffee and leaned back in a quiet shell of contentment. "Until this case, yes."

Wilson turned. "Okay. Lunch then?"

House nodded, "Lunch."

-

-

-

Doctor Kutner entered Houses' office with his own coffee cup. "Going to the cafeteria. Want anything?"

"Already had it until Wilson interrupted. And I'll have it again after you leave - some peace and quiet."

Kutner, already used to his odd employers' abrupt and often rude demeanor, let the connecting door between office and conference room shut. House had been busy talking to someone only moments before.

"Kutner." House called after him.

He poked his head in the door again. "Yeah?"

"I didn't say I didn't want breakfast." House swung his leg to the floor and grabbed his cane, limping after Kutner to the elevator. Kutner had not actually wanted House eating with him but it was too late now to un-offer his offer.

Kutner watched House happily stick an over-easy egg on toast into his mouth. He chewed contentedly.

"I've got a case. When you're done here, get the other minions and run the labs."

"Who is he?"

"Who said it was a he?"

"Then who is she?"

"Who said it was a she?"

Kutner sighed, letting his characteristically cryptic boss tell him in his own way.

After finishing his toast, House finally did. "It's a he and his name is, we gotta keep this secret so let's say we call him Elvis Presley."

"Right." Kutner said. "No charts, no records. Is Elvis applying to NASA?"

"No."

"So we're going to be running tests on a patient not assigned to us? One you don't want Cuddy to find out about?" Kutner ventured. With the big, bad wolfs' stomach full, now was as good a time as any to broach an unspoken and usually House-forbidden subject.

"He's assigned to _me_." House swallowed. "Therefore to you. Therefore to Cuddy."

"So you're going to eventually let her know but only by osmosis?"

"See? You're not a stupid as everyone insists you are."

Kutner knew Cuddy would have something to say about it like: why didn't they have guts enough to tell her House was off on one of his only-loosely-work-related mystery benders and wasting time and resources once again. "She won't like it."

"What she doesn't know won't hurt me and _I'm_ your boss, not her."

Kutner knew it was useless to argue. After working almost a year for the man he knew that once House made up his mind on something, he almost never deviated.

When House answered Cuddys' call to come to her office, Kutner was already there. The fellowship looked sheepish but House couldn't damn him for having balls enough to defy him. "Sorry." Kutner muttered to him. "She can fire me faster than you can."

House scowled. "Wanna' bet?"

Cuddy snapped at Kutner, "Don't apologize to him." To House she said "Stop the tests on _Elvis_ immediately."

"Don't be cru-u-el. I'll let him go back into hiding just as soon as I've diagnosed him. The tabloids will love me."

Cuddy didn't laugh. "Stop the tests or have your Lab, CT and MRI privileges revoked."

Wilson walked in like a savior on a steed and House threw an arm his way, addressing Cuddy. "Now you'll get it from Elvis' secret lovers' mouth." House nodded to Wilson. "Tell her."

Wilson paused in his footsteps, looking from House to Cuddy and back to House. "I really must stop walking into rooms containing you. Tell her what?"

House grimaced. "Oh, give it up already. She knows about the mystery patient, she's got her fist around my balls and they're about to pop. _Tell_ her, Wilson."

Wilson could have won the Oscar for his performance of genuine confusion. House almost believed it. "I have no idea who or what you're talking about."

Cuddy evidently did believe him, because she dismissed him with a curt gesture then turned to House. "Trying to pass the buck onto Wilson is weak, even for you."

House tapped his cane on the floor. "He's just a 'fraidy cat."

Cuddy brooked no more argument, her tone absolute. "After the insanity you pulled last year, the Board was one vote shy of sending you for compulsory psychological evaluations. Guess whose vote _that_ was? Stop the tests or I'll stop you myself with a one way ticket to the sixth floor."

Without another word, House spun on his heel and left her office. He caught up to Wilson who had not gone far from the clinic. "Hey." House stopped Wilson with a grab to his sleeve, ignoring the pale faced, rash covered patient Wilson was speaking to.

"What the hell?" House said, his voice steadily rising. "I put my ass out there for you and all you do is cop to ignorance?"

Wilson glanced around nervously at the people nearby who could hear every word House was making no attempt to keep quiet. "House," He stared at his friend with a mix of fear and habitual exasperation, "I'm doing my clinic hours." He leaned in and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "And I don't know what you're talking about."

House relented. "Yeah, yeah, cloak and dagger, I get it. Just how sick _is_ this friend of yours?"

Wilson shook his head. "We'll talk later about this, okay?"

House nodded, a bit angry and a bit frustrated with the secrecy Wilson kept insisting on. "Fine. But you owe me big time."

"Sure, House. Whatever."

-

-

-

Behind Houses' back, Kutner returned to Cuddys' office, wanting to broach another, even more sensitive subject.

"What else do you want?" She demanded, her patience allotment for the day already mostly used up.

Kutner swallowed. But this was important. This was also a little scary. "I think there's something wrong with House."

Cuddy dismissed that with a snort. "There's always something wrong with him - stand in line."

"No. This something is out-of-the-ordinary. I think he's losing his mind."

Just then Taub entered the room. "House just ordered up another battery of tests for his nameless, faceless patient X." In his hands Cuddy recognized, along with a lab print-out, was her memo that she had sent to Houses' fellowships and _then_ to House. "Either he doesn't remember your instructions _not_ to order more tests for patient No Name or he does remember but doesn't care."

Cuddy bit her lip. House had done lots of crazy things over the years and on her House Crazy Graph ignoring her directives was way down the page. There was one way she might be able to rein House in but still give herself opportunity to discover that, at least in this case, House was _not_ crazy. She turned to Kutner. "I want you to find out who this mystery patient is, only don't let House know you're checking up on him."

Kutner appeared uncomfortable with the assignment.

"Think you can do that?" She asked.

"Uh, I'll try I guess."

"Try hard." Cuddy said then turned to Taub. "You help him." And back to Kutner, "You brought this to my attention, now you're going to help me work it. If House is going mad," Cuddy swallowed, hoping they didn't notice she was sweating, "I need to know as soon as possible." _To better somehow save his sorry ass._

The two doctors left to see to her underhanded mission and Cuddy gave herself permission to breath again and release the tension she had been holding on to ever since the moment Kutner had entered her office.

Might House actually be nuts?

Cuddy spoke to herself and to her employee-friend not present. "House . . ." Knowing that talking to herself could be misconstrued as being not entirely sane, she finished silently, _What in Gods' name is wrong with you now?_

-

-

-

Part II ASAP


	2. Chapter 2

TWICE THE MAN

Part II

Summary: Wilson/House centric. Paranormal-ish. Episodic, sort of. Implied _**character death. **_Wilson suspects there is something very wrong with House.

Pairing: House/Wilson _**Bro**_mance.

Rating: General. Some language.

Disclaimer: Gregory House is not mine, dammit!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hey-"

Wilson turned and was glad to see House walking up to him. He needed to talk to House.

_Cuddy_ needed him to talk to House. "How are you?"

House did not disguise his irritation. "Fine and nothing."

"What?"

"I mean I'm fine and to answer your next question, namely _Is there anything wrong House?_ The answer is - No, nothing is wrong."

"You're miserable when you're fine. Lately you've just been occupied and by occupied I mean disconnected and weird. There's something wrong."

"God, I wish people would stay the hell out of my psyche. There's only room for _me_."

"As long as you refuse to tell me what it is, I won't stop bugging you about what it is, so you may as well get it over with and tell me."

House stopped so suddenly that Wilson ran into the back of him. "When did you start trying to be me?" House asked testily. "You don't look anything like me or talk like me or think like me on your best day or walk like me on your worst day. And if you were anywhere even within shouting distance of being me, you'd have stopped wearing such ugly ties."

Wilson already had a headache. "It's not even noon and I'm already exhausted." He said.

"Boo-hoo."

Wilson rubbed his palms together. "House. Believe it or not, incredible as this may seem to _everyone _on the planet, you have friends who care. You've been acting weird-"

House lost his scant reserve of patience. "Don't you want to know about Elvis?"

Wilson looked genuinely confused. "Excuse me?"

"I know we're in public but give me a moments' clarity, will ya'? My _case_. _The _case? Patient X?"

Wilson nodded if only to encourage House to calm down. "Sure. Okay. Tell me about Elvis."

House limped quickly away, his shoulders bobbing up and down. "Well, come on. Unless you want to discuss this right here?"

Wilson followed him. House was either going to 'fess up and tell him what was really wrong or keep playing his game. Whichever it was, he had to be there to find out. "Coming."

Cuddy appeared at his side as House entered the elevator. "I'll be right there." Wilson called after him, then turned to Cuddy.

"How is he?" She asked.

Wilson shrugged. "Acting like House; mercurial, evasive, angry - in denial. The usual."

"Do you have any idea who this mystery patient is?" She asked. "None of the fellowships have been able to find out anything."

"I have an idea, but it's just a stab in the dark. Without tests, labs - and we can't do those unless we know who it is." Wilson hoped she would ask no more.

Cuddy bit her lip. Her eyes were tired and sad. "Do you think he's losing it?"

He honestly had no idea. But he knew one thing, he would do everything he could to help House if House was nuts, or sick, and everything he could to prove House sane if he was sane, sick or well. "How do you tell with him?" Wilson asked sadly.

Cuddy looked at the elevator that had swallowed House up moments ago. "I'm beginning to think this patient of his doesn't exist." She cupped a hand to her cheek as though needing comfort from the fear of that possibility. Trying to diagnose a non-existent patient might just be the route House would travel on his way to crazy. "Please keep an eye on him. If he becomes unstable, I mean dangerously, I'll have no choice but to take action. I only wish I knew at this point what action."

Wilson nodded, feeling a wave of sadness for his friend. And guilt. Eccentric, genius, mysterious, withdrawn, a loner, an odd-ball - all things House had been called and all things that more or less fittingly described an such unusual man.

Insane, nuts, irrational, crazy, demented - all terms to describe a man well on his way to mental illness and the probable end of his medical career.

Wilson went to Houses' office to find it empty and that said to him that things were not looking at all up. House _had _to be sick. It was not just the physical ticks, though House had always had those in some measure, but his most recent behavior. House had ditched Wilson many times but never over something that interested him like this case. Wilson was sure this case must be an itch in Houses mind and since House seemed to believe that Wilson was connected - he ought to have waited for him. Right? Unless House was lying to conceal the real patient, or to conceal something about that patient. If the patient was real.

Wilson shook his head at the sudden pain between his eyes. The nausea the man managed to evoke in him whenever House was on a mystery bender was already making its nasty presence known. That said to Wilson that something was there to conceal. "Where the _hell_ did he go?"

Wilson entered Houses' empty office. It was bizarre. Wilson looked around, wondering where House would have hid those alluded to lab results. _If_ they could shed some light on what was going on...

He started with the desk.

-

-

-

Wilson read the results aloud to Cuddy. "Two inconclusive's and one indeterminate." He closed the file and slumped on her office chair like a bean bag, overcome with weariness. "Well, that certainly speeds things along. We now have confirmation that we don't know what's wrong with him."

More from habit than the need to, Cuddy brushed aside great wave of her dyed and heavily sprayed hair. "Can you even _guess_ who this mystery patient might be? Please tell me you think he's real."

Wilson rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes with one hand. "I think,..." He sighed heavily. What did he think? Before he had not had the courage to voice what he thought. Now he felt he had no choice and it made him feel like a Benedict. "And this is just a guess because I hope I'm wrong, that this patient might be House himself."

Cuddys' expression told him that the possibility had at least crossed her mind. "He's running tests on himself and hiding the results? Hiding, in fact, that he might be sick?" She had feared Wilsons' words would echo her own worries and now that they did, Cuddy wished she could take them back. "How long have you suspected this?"

"Not long." He looked at her with sad resignation. "Does it strike you as a totally unrealistic scenario?"

Cuddy swallowed the fear she had been harboring. Fear that now had been given a measure of weight. Of course it was possible. It was not only possible, it wouldn't be the first time.

But, "House wasn't really sick then." She reminded Wilson, clinging to that with white knuckles. But Houses' history of off-kilter behavior and kookie schemes also carried validity. That's all this might be, really, she hoped. Just a really, _really_ bad joke. Cuddy wondered at her sudden urge to just go along with said joke and let House fall as he may. So often he had landed on his feet.

But not always, and not entirely without help.

"No. Not _that_ time." Wilson quietly answered.

All the same, to hear it almost physically hurt. The pain of the possibility that House, after the recent abuse to which he had subjected his own brain, was no longer himself made it all the way to her protesting heart. He was a friend. She had to protest until given no final choice but to accede to any other option.

With House it was so possible that the truth could be either, or that it would probably remain a guessing game until he himself decided to let them know which was correct. What did House say once? That at the end of the story about the boy who cried wolf, the wolf does really come and does really eat the boy. For herself, Cuddy took the meaning home; although House had lied a dozen times, that didn't preclude that he wasn't really sick _this_ time.

God_damn_ him and his need to hide everything. There had been times when Cuddy had wanted to slap his face and wrap her arms around him all at once. This was turning out to be one those times. "You know how stubborn he is. How private and stupidly insufferable - how can we find out for sure? Tie him down? Run tests on him ourselves? Suppose we're wrong?"

"Suppose we're right?" Wilson felt the old, slow, nausea that followed him whenever House appeared to be on the edge of going down forever. "These are text book labs for checking for neurological disorders." Wilsons' voice went quiet with the possibility. "He's been acting weird - well, weird_er_. Short term memory loss, confusion, his emotions are all over the place - I mean more than usual." He paused, idly picking at the material on her office chair. "House has suffered a serious concussion, a cracked skull, a heart attack and a seizure and all within a few hours. There may have been enough oxygen deprivation," he hated to suggest it, "to cause some brain damage."

"That didn't manifest itself until now?"

"Over-work, back to drinking again, back on the Vicodin or some combination of the above might have stressed his brain."

Cuddy closed her eyes to it, then opened them agin. Wilson, she noted, looked terrible. "Speaking of damage, you look like hell." But Cuddy knew the possibility was at least there somewhere. That such physical damage might be in reference to House seemed to go against the natural order of the universe. House was a lot of things but over-all he _was_ his fantastic brain.

"Let me work on him." Wilson said. "Talk to him. Maybe I'll get lucky and we won't have to drug him again in order to stop him pushing his own self destruct button. Maybe nip this, whatever this is, in the bud."

"Nip fast."

-

-

-

"House."

House groaned and rolled over in his office lounger. He'd been having the best nap he'd had in days. "Why can't you ever have a question for me during working hours?"

Wilson, white shirt wrinkle-free and as fresh as a spring daisy, stood before House, his face a puzzle. "My friend is getting worse but he's too wrapped up in something to pay any attention to himself."

House stared up at Wilson with new eyes of suspicion. "Your "friend"." House threw off his coat that he was using for a blanket and levered himself to his feet with his cane and one hand on the chair back. "You know what I think about your friend?"

Wilson watched House take a seat at his desk. "What?"

"There is no friend. There's only you." Houses' brow was pinched with annoyance yet his eyes wide with concern. "You're the one who's sick. So what other symptoms have you been experiencing and why the hell didn't you tell me it was you who were sick?"

Wilson shook his head and sat in the chair opposite House. "House, if I knew I was sick, I would eventually tell you. And therefore if I _already_ knew, would I come to you for a consult? Would I then deny it? Risk my job by lying about it to Cuddy? Plus don't you think I'd be getting treatment?"

House sat back, conceding to the reasonableness of Wilsons' argument. "No to all of the above." He admitted quietly, then sharply reminded him - "You left me hanging with my dick in Cuddys' wind."

Wilson hung his head a little, having good conscience enough to look guilty.

"Fine." House said wearily. "So? Why are you here? Elvis have a new symptom? Is he all shook up?"

A twist of his lip betray Wilsons' appreciation of the humor behind the whole situation but his face quickly turned serious. "He's sleeping more, tiring easily. If it were just stress that would be helping. Obviously it's not."

House squinted an eye in a sarcastic wink. "God, I just love all these vague physical manifestations of this even vague-er disease. I need _more_."

Wilson impulsively reached out a hand but stopped short of actually touching his friend. "I know. I'm sorry. There just isn't more. Not yet."

House thought for a moment. "Tell your friend to watch a horror movie tonight."

"Why?"

"We need to stress his brain. If something in Elvis' behavior changes, we might learn something."

"Meaning you want me to watch it with him?"

"Kind of hard to see any change from across town."

"Right." Wilson stood. "Okay." He turned back. "You know, this could be serious. He could possibly be _dying_."

"I know."

"And I care about him." Wilson added. "Like I care about you."

House stared at his friend, the odd statement hung in the air between them, House puzzled by it and Wilson quietly observing that puzzlement. "Well, it sucks but dying isn't just a possibility, it's an absolute." House stood himself and slipped into his coat. "I'm going home."

"Everybody dies?"

"Exactly, even if it takes fifty years. Or were you hoping that wasn't going to happen in this case? 'Cause I hate to disappoint you but -"

Wilson pressed rueful lips together. "You know, I _was_ kinda' hoping."

"'Nite." Leaving Wilson, House walked to his office door and found his way to the lower parking garage. Winter made parking the bike outdoors a cold-seated prospect.

"Hey!"

Wilson had caught up to him.

House shoved his helmet down over his skull. "I thought you were off to Grace land? Remember? - stressing out Elvis; bloody movie; deep fried steak; Twinkies..."

"Umm. Elvis can't make it tonight so I'll have to pilgrimage another time. House, it's our Tai food night."

House seemed surprised. "Oh - right! Elvis can wait - he's probably already dying anyway." House tightened the strap around his chin. "I forgot it was Tai night,"

Wilson sucked in a breath. House had not only forgotten but seemed unsurprised that he had.

"but I'll be sure to remember if you're buying." House finished.

Wilson forced himself to smile. "Will you remember to be grateful? Meet you at your place."

-

-

-

House watched Wilson shovel food into his mouth. "Well you certainly don't eat like you're sick."

Wilson chewed and swallowed. "That's because I'm _not_ sick." Wilson watched House pick at his food then carelessly drop the chop sticks onto his plate. "You, however, have hardly eaten anything."

House shoved his plate away. "This case is bugging me."

Wilson tossed his own bowl of noodles on the coffee table and shifted his feet. One had fallen asleep because he had been so busy observing House while trying not to look like he was observing him, that he hadn't shifted his position in over an hour. He decided that a tactic other than direct questions might tell him more about whatever was going on with his friend. "What part?"

House shook his head. "All of it and no, not unless you can tell me more than I already know?"

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Sorry. Afraid I can't help you there. What about the labs?"

"Inconclusive." House sounded irritated by the question. "I need to _see_ the guy. I need to _observe_ him. I need an actual, physical patient."

Wilson very calmly tried to sort out Houses' meaning. "Diagnosing by seeing him? Seems like no challenge at all." He teased. Did House just confess that his patient isn't real or do I just think that's what he means? How do you ask your best friend whether or not he's speaking of a figment of his imagination without letting on you think he may be losing a bit of his mind?

"House," Wilson decided to risk it. "Are you sure you're all right? This case . . ."

"_Your_ case is driving me nuts."

"House, I don't have a case."

"Hey. We're alone here. Drop the secret code routine."

Wilson swallowed the fear rising in his chest. Now he felt really lost. "Can we start this conversation again?"

House stared at him. "You just _un_convinced me that you're not sick. Unless this is a really bad joke and in case you hadn't noticed, 'aint in the mood lately."

Wilson quickly soothed. "Sorry."_ Jesus._ What the hell was going on here? Had House run the labs for himself? "Did you run the DNA test?"

"Sure, for everything I could think of but there are a lot of things that have no genetic precursors or markers."

"Did you run his familial DNA?"

"Why would I need to? You already know Elvis."

Wilson subconsciously wiped a hand down his face. House was making him very afraid and more and more tired with worry. "House, Cuddy and I-"

Interrupting - "ALS." House said.

"ALS?" He repeated like a parrot. "Lou Gehrig's?" Wilson asked. "You think "Elvis" has Lou Gehrigs disease?"

"Fits. As vague as the symptoms are, it fits. No genetic predisposition required and he's the right age."

Wilson furiously thought. "True." _Late adult onset_. Wilson voiced in his head. House was a trifle later than usual but not out of the ballpark, and the symptoms, what had so far manifested, fit perfectly. ALS. _Christ almighty_. If true, about the only good news was that while taking the body away, it would leave the brain intact. House would still be House - if they could confirm it right now and start him on a regime of treatments to slow its progress.

Now that he had a working theory, Wilson wished he could forget the whole terrifying thing. "You can't be sure -" _Please don't be sure, House._

"-No, but it's the first thing that fits better than anything else that might fit." House glared at him. "If Elvis would just enter the damn building, I could actually confirm." House got to his feet and limped down the hallway. "I gotta' pee."

When Wilson heard the door shut, he carefully pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and, picking it up by its' edges, he placed Houses' plastic spoon from dinner into the bag and sealed it, tucking it back in his pocket. From the couch, he searched for a found a hair from Houses' head, one with the root attached, and placed that in a second bag.

If House was right, he had just diagnosed his own debilitating, eventually terminal illness. _If_ it was indeed himself that his own cross-wired brain was attempting to diagnose. In any event, nothing would be clear until he got these samples back to the lab. Wilson tried to think of a way he might also obtain a sample of Houses' blood without him the wiser, but the flushing toilet put an end to any clandestine figuring for the present time.

Once House had seated himself again, Wilson turned his attention back to the nameless sports program House had chosen for the evening.

He could not help but steal glances at his friend for the next hour, hoping he was wrong, hoping House would be okay, hoping for anything. Empty wishes that House was already okay and this was all just some weird, lingering but temporary effect from the physical injuries Houses' body and brain had endured over the previous six months.

Some of those injuries, Wilson reminded himself, had occurred due his own selfishness. The deep brain stimulation, the metal probe - _for Christs' sake, what the fuck was I thinking?_ - that he had asked House to stick into his skull on the off-chance it might save his dying girlfriend and which had caused House a serious seizure and subsequent coma, was _his _fault.

_I never even thanked him._ Wilson wondered which god was looking down at him through Houses' current physical wretchedness (most of that his fault too), and mocking him for his greed.

Wilson wished House didn't have such an aversion to physical contact, because he wanted to indulge a sudden impulse to fling his arms around him and hold on tight.

XXX

Part III ASAP


	3. Chapter 3

TWICE THE MAN

Part IIIfff

Summary: Wilson/House centric. Paranormal-ish. Episodic, sort of. Implied _**cfharacter death. **_Wilson suspects there is something very wrong with House.

Pairing: House/Wilson _**Bro**_mance.

Rating: General. Some language.

Disclaimer: Gregory House is not mine, dammit!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Was he House?"

Wilson understood Cuddys' meaning. Last night, their evening togther that he had told her all about afterward. She wanted to know if House was _himself_ House, not House acting half-cut when he hadn't touched a drop or House tripping when he hadn't done any psychedelic recreating in months.

"He was . . ." Wilson shook his head. He wished otherwise but "...I'm not sure. He wasn't _completely_ his usual frustrating eccentric self." He offered. "I know that much."

"Well, we'd better find out because now he's refusing cases so he can treat his invisible man." She pointed to a stack of files on her desk. "He had Kutner deliver these back to me."

It seemed a sharp turn had just appeared off Weird House Street to take all of them down Going-to-Shit Alley and House was driving. His heart sank. "Damn."

Cuddy held up the top file. "This one has been to four hospitals and nine doctors - he has kidney damage with no previous injury or disease, pain in his extremities and so far no diagnosis."

"Alcoholic?"

"He's _nine_." She thrust the file into Wilsons' hand who handled it like it was a live grenade, it was a bomb waiting to blow up in their faces. If House refuses this one Cuddy would shut him down.

Cuddy looked at him squarely. "Make sure House takes it. Make _sure _we're not wrong before I have to end his career. And while you're at it, I want you to check him out. A complete physical."

Wilson felt the quasi fear he had been carrying around in his chest solidify into a menacing mass of dread. "He'll never buy it. He'll know something's up."

"But he'll still do it or he's gone. Tell him if he wants to argue about his job, he can see me _after_ he passes his physical with flying colors."

-

-

-

Wilson delivered the file to House personally, who flipped through with it his interest meter registering just above zero. "Cuddy's orders huh?" He said after Wilson explained her intentions. "And what about Elvis? Did Cuddy tuck your balls away somewhere too, or is it just mine she's after?"

"Cuddy asked me to bring this to you. Do the case, House, or Cuddy will have to shut you down and I don't think she's kidding."

House nodded, took his cane in one hand and the case in the other, opened the connecting door between his office and the conference room, took a few steps toward the desk around which sat his team with very obviously little to do, and tossed it to the nearest member. "New case." He said. "Kid. Nine years old. No prior history-"

Doctor Hadley opened it and began to skim through. "-No prior history of what?" She asked.

"Of anything, he's nine. Check for all the usual toxins, drugs, heavy metals and if that's all negative, ask Daddy if Mommy cooks a lot of imported beef."

"What?" Hadley asked.

"Aflatoxicosis." Taub explained. "Gets on vegetation, cows eat it, shows up in the organ meats, transferred to people, interferes with kidney and liver functions and in the worst stages, can cause gangrene."

"Which starts with tingling or numbness in the extremities."

"Get on it, kiddies." House returned to his desk where Wilson was still waiting. "What are you still doing here?"

"Cuddy also said you missed your physical."

"Cuddy says? You mean Cuddy and you." He sat down again, turning to his computer. "Sorry, no time. Porn to bookmark." He quipped. "You understand. Clearly a physical with a hose up my anus or busty girls with a hose type object up theirs-"

"-_House_."

"-is no choice at all." House turned innocent eyes on Wilson, but shut his computer down. "Come on." He alternated his hands, palms up. "This is me, remember? Porn? Physical? Porn? Surely you can appreciate that my judgement is still sound?"

"Maybe but Cuddy doesn't and she ordered me to make you take your physical."

"Okay but only if _she's_ wearing the rubber gloves for the fun parts." He stood, leaning heavily on his cane. "Bare handed would be fine. I'm a nature buff."

"House-"

"-Don't you think I know what this is? This is Cuddy trying to make sure her best player's still got all his chips. She thinks I'm going nuts. How about you?"

Wilson looked at the ceiling and House noted it. "Ceiling tiles don't talk."

Wilson mustered every facial muscle he owned and effected his best look of a pretty-please.

House closed his eyes and sighed like a man who couldn't find the Exit sign. "Fine. Give me the goddamn physical, for all the good it'll do. But you're mystery friend could be dying while we're wasting time." House lurched from the room toward the elevator, displaying his unapologetic displeasure by bringing the hard rubber tip of his cane down on any of Wilsons' toes that strayed within range.

Wilson silently endured his friends juvenile wrath. _That's what I'm afraid of._

_-_

_-_

_-_

Wilson choose a private exam room, turning the door handle lock to spare them any disruptions and took blood and urine samples. He checked Houses' heart and lungs. House endured the "breath in and out" routine with a long, grumpy face.

"They appear fine." Wilson cautiously announced.

"Why wouldn't they be?"

Wilson pulled on a fresh pair of sterile gloves. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the three heart attacks you've had, the pneumonia after your two life-threatening surgeries, the alcohol and Vicodin you've been throwing back since you turned forty. . . "

House screwed up his eyes, clearly impatient with the facts. "Yeah, yeah, just hurry up. Elvis needs me." He snipped. "I thought this patient mattered to you?"

Wilson looked at him pointedly. "_This_ patient does." He handed House an opaque, plastic beaker the size and length of a large man's thumb. "Fill 'er up."

House stared at the cup and then at his doctor friend. "Are you making a pass? You better be because you are _not_ getting a sperm sample. And this isn't big enough."

Testily, "Right!" Wilson snatched it away with an angry fist. "Fine! _Be_ an ass. Ignore your health and dismiss those who care about you."

House snatched it back. "Don't go turning into your Jewish grandmother, just give the damn thing back." House unzipped then looked up at Wilson, who was hovering near the door. "You're going to watch?"

Wilson turned away and exited, though not really wanting to leave him alone.

Cuddy was waiting in the hall, seated on a hospital issue hard plastic and steel, uncomfortable chair. "So?" She asked when Wilson appeared at her side.

Wilson didn't have any answers yet. "Just getting the samples now, then we'll do an MRI, then the labs."

Cuddy knew, of course, the procedures.

"Hey!" Houses' voice called from behind the door. "Need a magazine in here."

Wilson ignored it.

"Or send Cuddy down here and tell her to wear something sleazy. I mean sleazi-_er_."

Cuddy looked at Wilson with eyes sadder than usual. Such commentary, however inappropriate, was something she hoped she would not have to soon miss.

Cuddy leaned her head back until it touched the wall. She looked up at Wilson. "You look even worse than he does."

Wilson pursed grim lips. "Thanks. It's the wear and tear. Best friend and all."

-

-

-

House was glad his fireman wasn't ready to retire yet and when Wilson entered the room, he handed him the cup. "Here you go. Genuine House DNA. Go and procreate with my blessing."

Wilson didn't take the cup. He stood against the door and spoke. "You're blind. And an idiot."

House was still at the sudden attack. "Now what the hell are you-"

"-I've been as open as I have been able to be and still you make jokes. Still, instead of helping me, you neglect your health and end up here."

"I can't help your patient if I can't see him."

"Why not? You never used to meet the patients. You always said it wasn't necessary - not to mention that you always didn't care."

"And you haven't always been this cryptic and infuriating. You insisted we waste time on this physical and _now_ your panties are in a knot about it? I don't know what the hell you're playing at but you're driving me crazy!"

Wilson all but shouted in his face. "Wake up, House! Things aren't always the way they seem. Open your damn eyes."

With a flurry of pissed off fingers, House yanked his jeans up over his boxers and bent to pull his socks back on. "You want your damn patient X diagnosed, do it yourself. I'm sick of your paranoia and Cuddy assuming it's all me when it's actually all you." House looked around for where he had carelessly tossed his tee-shirt. "I'm beginning to think it was you who was in the bus accident."

Wilson took tiny steps to the wall opposite the door so in case House decided to bolt, he wouldn't be in the way. Holding up two restraining hands, "House. I know this is frustrating."

"Frustrating? You all act like I'm losing my mind. Well, next time they ask, I'll send them to the source." House bent down to wiggle into his sneakers, tying the shoelaces with unnecessarily violent tugs, ignoring Wilsons' presence from then on.

-

-

-

Cuddy heard voices behind the wall. She listened carefully. A voice - just one. Houses' voice speaking - talking, pausing, then talking again, seemingly back and forth to some one. She looked up at Wilson standing at her side. "Do you hear that?" She said, her voice soft with the sad realization. "House is talking to himself." Then again to make it all too depressingly real, "Oh my god, Wilson, is he really talking to himself?"

Wilson trained an ear closer to the windowless door. He heard Houses' distinctive voice, the rise and fall of his mocking chatter, but could distinguish no individual words. "Yeah, yeah, he is..." He closed his eyes for a second. "...I'll go."

Cuddy crossed her arms over her torso to keep her nerves and stomach in place. Their worst fears were now more certain than before.

Wilson opened the door and saw House bent over, his back to the exam table and him. "House-"

House straightened up and with some difficulty, hobbled passed him into the hallway. "Shut the hell up. I'm through talking to you." He noticed Cuddy and let into her with equal venom. "You think I'm nuts?" He yelled. "You want to admit me? Then stop dancing with him and admit me. You're the Administrator - do _something_ for Christ sake or just leave me the fuck alone to do my job."

"That's what we were hoping to do." Cuddy stood and faced him. Houses' quick temper had never managed to fluster her before and his inexplicable rage now did not stop her doing what she was now forced to. "House, I'm admitting you to the psychiatric ward for observation and evaluation. Check yourself in or you're fired."

House had almost stalked off when Cuddy issued her threat and when his black cloud of anger had settled enough, he turned to look at her, searching for any sign that the threat was an idle one.

And Cuddy obliged him with, "This isn't a joke. You've become unstable, almost unglued, and that means you're a danger to yourself and if you're a danger to yourself, then you're a danger your patients. No more cases, no more anything until you've been cleared as mentally fit."

House looked to Wilson who didn't have the courage to return his gaze. All he managed was a solemn - "Sorry, House."

House nodded. "Right. Admitting _me_. If you're going to admit anybody, it oughta' be him." House stepped to the elevator and pushed the button. "I'll be upstairs. If anybody starts dying while I'm gone, just pretend I'm too crazy to work and let them die. At least it won't be on _my_ record."

-

-

-

Wilson entered Houses' private room.

House appeared to be asleep but opened his eyes when he heard the door.

Approaching cautiously Wilson asked "How are you?" He felt like an idiot because it was a lame ass question, but he could think of no appropriate opener for his first visit to a psychiatric patient who happened to be his best friend.

"_Crazy_. Didn't you hear?" House quipped. "Got my own plastic cup, spoon and plate. Got me a nice guard at the door and even my own camera."

Wilson followed his eyes to the tiny black ceiling camera opposite the bed panning back and forth over the room with its red, cyclops eye.

"I'm a celebrity. I've got a belly full of luke-warm milk, pureed oatmeal mush and rubber sheets. I ask you - what more could an nut-job want?"

Wilson had no response but, "You know, we really are just trying to help you."

House closed his eyes. "You want to help me - Then how's the patient? Worse?"

Wilson could hardly breath now that they knew the painful truth of it. There was no patient other than House. House in a cage. House with his wings clipped. House mentally or physically too ill to work. Too ill to be again the best thing he ever could be - a crack-shot, brilliant physician with a mind like a diamond jack-hammer. Nothing, almost _nothing_, ever got by him.

It was possible that House would no longer be the House he had known. Not anymore. Wilson said softly. "We think so."

"Too bad. I guess the guy's only going to get sicker. Sure as hell can't work a case from in here. Don't have my team or my Internet porn - how's a doctor supposed to get anything done?"

Wilson smiled in spite of the sorrow that made the room stuffy and close. House appeared oblivious to it. It was true that the truly crazy didn't think they were crazy.

But if that were true, House had been crazy for years, hadn't he?

With small, weary steps Wilson pulled the rooms' only chair over to the bed and sat down. "Well, Cuddy said only a few days at first and then she'd see about privileges."

"Yeah." House fiddled with his bed covers. "Guess you'll have to send Elvis to another doctor. But that doesn't clear you of coughing up my fee if that's what you're thinking. The price is double now."

"Didn't you mention you were doing that case for nothing?"

"Now it's triple, smart ass."

Wilson choked up. House could be seriously ill. Whatever was wrong could take his mind, his body or his life and until the DNA tests came back they wouldn't know how bad or how soon any of it might worsen. Maybe even then, they would not really know.

God, he was tired and sick to his stomach with the whole situation. He hadn't eaten so much as a cracker since yesterday. Something occurred to him. "Why ALS?"

"Huh?"

Wilson recalled their earlier odd-ball conversation. "You said you thought the patient might have Lou Gehrig's disease but you based that on just a few, vague symptoms so why Lou Gehrig's? With so little to go on, why that disease?"

House appeared a little confused by the question. "I don't know. It just. . .came to me. It just seems to fit, that's all."

"From three or four symptoms that might be a dozen different things, you settled on that. Did something trigger the idea?"

House tried to think but the attending shrink had pumped him full of Lantanon and his mind was starting to drift like leaves on pond ripples. his higher senses scattering away. No thought would stick one to another and form a pattern that made any real sense. Nothing was connecting anymore. He sighed. "I'm not - there isn't - I...d-don't know." His head dropped back onto the pillow and he closed bloodshot eyes.

Watching quietly as House fell asleep, Wilson felt so afraid for what might be in store for his friend. This room was confining and depressing, two things House already had enough of in his life. But here he would be kept physically drugged, regulated and controlled. His daily routine would be scheduled to the last minute and he would be assigned boring, pointless crazy-person tasks like reading self-help books or making ugly bookends until his eyes popped out and his mind lost all direction. Either the mental illness or the underlying physical disease causing it - or the treatment for either one - would be his undoing.

"I'll leave you alone." Wilson whispered, touching his arm. House was already asleep. "See you tomorrow."

-

-

-

Wilson drove home, his eyes shifting focus from the road to the sharp memory of House lying almost comatose, already preserved within his accident-proof, plastic sheeted existence and then back to the real-time street in the night, bathed in harsh street lights. He could barely keep his hands on the wheel.

ALS was a puzzle too. Why would House come up with that? Did he see it in himself? And why would that be causing neurological symptoms?

Or was it the other way around, the neurological symptoms only mimicking Lou Gehrig's?

House was displaying almost all the signs of a mental breakdown. But, Wilson often forgot, House was almost fifty and maybe he wasn't quite as resilient anymore as they had all somehow convinced themselves he was. Maybe House hadn't just shaken off that terrible accident or the resulting head trauma, seizures and heart attack? "Jesus Christ", Wilson asked his seat covers, "who _could_?"

If House wasn't sick with ALS, he was still quite obviously sick. Wilson himself had observed the restlessness, the fatigue and stumbling (though he had to admit to himself that one was debatable at best. The man was, after all, a cripple in pain), the dramatic lack of appetite and the mans' irritability with all of the foregoing and to put a head on it - with all of them as well.

_Because we're telling him he's crazy, Wilson. Even __**crazy**__ people don't like that._

Would House, even in all his brilliance, be right in a diagnosis as serious as Lou Gehrig's based on little more than a smattering of vague symptoms produced only in himself but about which signs he was in denial? Was House diagnosing himself via a hallucination of his nagging best friend? Of the whole damn situation, the idea itself was the craziest part.

Wilson parked his car, struggled to get out and place one foot in front of the other. He made it to his condo and stepped inside, remembering to flip the lock this time, a thing he had been forgetting lately what with House so much in his thoughts at front row and center. He dragged his ass up his five plus one for the landing, then turn and six steps more, making it to his bedroom in one big wobbly but still roughly whole human form.

Wilson sat on the edge of his unmade bed, sheet-tucking and pillow fluffing tasks for which his energy had also been recently lacking. He tapped his foot on the floor. It was almost asleep. He would follow it down just as soon as possible.

Wilson undressed and considered, his mind refusing to rest just yet: House was hallucinating - they couldn't deny that. He was in fact hallucinating, from as much as they could tell, a James Wilson ghost trying to convince House that he was ill.

Made sense in some ironic, semi-sorta'-_romantic_ way; that the man who nagged him the most would have gotten so deeply inside Houses' head that House himself, in spite of his own stubbornness to admit there was anything wrong, would nag his own psyche in the form of James Wilson, Supreme Nagger-er.

Wilson felt a sad yet strange pride that he had become that tied up in Houses' mind; so integral a part that House, in the absence of the genuine article, would use a made up version of Wilson to try and self correct. House, for all his insistence that he could care for himself just fine all on his own had, in a time of extreme need, come to him for help in a very weird, Housian, slightly psychotic way.

If it wasn't so pathetically depressing, it would be almost . . . _heartwarming_.

House though still denied the actual hallucinations, screaming at him once Cuddy had made good her threat, signing him up for a month of observation, twice her original threat. _I'm not hallucinating anything. You just don't want Cuddy to know this patient was all just me doing you a favor. That's what I get for being nice. Here endeth the lesson!_

Wilson stripped and crawled beneath the covers, his stomach growling to remind him that he still had not eaten. But House had divested him of any appetite anyway and instead his only craving was easing the fire in his long empty stomach. Wilson managed another trip to the bathroom where he swallowed two an-acids, washing them down with a glass of tepid water he'd left sitting on the counter since the morning before. It was not sanitary but he didn't much care.

He wondered if he had the beginnings of an ulcer. Not entirely unexpected in a struggle where House-born collateral damage was practically a given. So when the rolling fire-pit beneath his rib-cage didn't ease right away, Wilson stumbled down to the kitchen and poured out an ice cold glass of milk with a pinch of bicarbonate of soda.

Wilson felt grubby and remembered he had not showered in over twenty-four hours. He felt sure his armpits were in need of a good de-smellifying. Loathing the idea of returning to bed in such a scummy state, he stepped under a warm shower to wash away a few layers of stress along with the dirt.

His so-called patient was no longer so-called nor a mystery. It was House and he was sick and Wilson believed it was mostly his fault. Heart attacks didn't cause this kind of brain damage when the victim is only down for a moment.

The bar of moisturized soap slipped through his fingers and he bent to fish for it in the few inches of water that had built up around his ankles. Wilson fumbled for the elusive lump and thought of bus accidents and concussions. But even mild brain swelling wouldn't make a person nuts unless the damage was severe to begin with and Houses' hadn't been.

Wilson rinsed off the suds and stepped from the shower. Trying to rub some feeling back into his body, he remembered the electrode, the head-vise, the screws against Houses' skull to hold it perfectly still while he had Chase assault the finest brain in New Jersey with electric jolts. Wilson dried himself with angry impatience, leaving his skin raw and pink. He stamped his foot again and felt a tingling. Pinched nerve. Too much sitting around worrying.

But the long metal probes he'd requested that Chase drive into Houses' living brain tissue that then caused him to suffer a massive seizure - that _can _cause brain damage and probably had. They just failed to notice it. No one hardly ever paid attention to House beyond his usual antics that only _appeared_ crazy. So House as really crazy had been missed.

House was ill and because his so-called best friend had insisted on Houses' suggestion of a dangerous and ill-conceived brain probe House, never being not crazy enough to change his mind and say No, had let it be done to him and now he was paying dearly.

Wilson was clean but felt dirty. He knew he would have to pay as well somehow because no amount of soap and water would ever wash away his selfish indulgence in making the request to begin with or his guilt at what it had done to House.

He should be at the hospital right now. He should be by his side every minute because House had done nothing less for him. House had risked his health and his life for him. And in gratitude here he was relaxing at home instead of being there to say the words House himself had said when by Gods' own providence he had come out of that brain drill still temporarily whole -

"I'm so _sorry_."

XXX

Part IV ASAP


	4. Chapter 4

TWICE THE MAN

Part IV

Summary: Wilson/House centric. Paranormal-ish. Episodic, sort of. Implied _**character death. **_Wilson suspects there is something very wrong with House.

Pairing: House/Wilson _**Bro**_mance.

Rating: General. Some language.

Disclaimer: Gregory House is not mine, dammit!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_**Sorry about the delay on this, but I'd rather do it well than quickly. **__Genie_

_**-**_

_**-**_

_**-**_

"Wilson."

Wilson spun at the familiar and commanding voice of his boss. Cuddy was standing right there, almost on top of him, bumping into the stack of files he was carrying and sending them in a cascade to the polished floor.

Bending to help him pick them up, "You're jumpy." She remarked.

He sorted papers into files haphazardly. "Do you blame me? My best friend is on the rubber ward, losing his mind." Wilson didn't mean to snap but he was angry at her for sending House to the sixth floor and angrier at himself for letting her talk him into it. He knew he was being unfair. House seemed just as unstable to him as he did to Cuddy.

"Wilson," They stood up together and she handed him the files she had gathered. "House just might get better up there. That's a good thing."

He nodded, accepting the files and walking away to do his doctor duties. _Or House might never be well again._ _I made him stick an electrode into the only part of his body that still functioned at a hundred percent and now it's misfiring too. _His pager beeped for his attention.

Wilson greeted him simply - "Chase?" He knew the young doctor had news for him about House. DNA news; the real deal on Houses' condition; beyond the psychological.

Chase handed his former bosses' best friend the results. "Nothing."

Wilson stared at him, down at the read-outs, then back at Chases' calm expression. "What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean nothing. There's absolutely no genetic abnormalities for ALS, MS, MD, Huntingtons or any other neurological/muscular disorder. It doesn't mean there _can't_ be anything else going on - we can't test for everything there is - but it does mean there's no genetic predisposition for any of the above."

Wilson held onto that fraction of good news. "So whatever it is, is probably neurological but in the psychological sense."

"Don't know but there's no markers for ALS, or anything similar."

Wilson sighed wearily.

"You were hoping..?"

"Of course not, it's just that, ALS doesn't always show a marker, but it would sure be simpler if it did."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, it could still be ALS. But as far as I can tell, House is still just an _ordinary_, crippled, angry, drug addicted jerk."

Wilson shook his head. _Okay, so what the hell is wrong with House?_ Because House was _wrong. _His intuition, instinct or his bizarre and brilliant mind wasn't just off, it was way off. So House was sick, just not sick the way they had thought.

The universe does have a sense of irony - House _would_ turn out to be the man no one could diagnose.

Chase nodded. "I'm sorry." He said in that inflection that meant _Them's the breaks. _Chase walked away. His job was done.

Wilson held onto the print-out in his hand with a tight fist. The results said a lot, but not everything. It was time to see Duhlman and get the low down on Houses' high flying mind.

-

-

-

-

House watched Hadley move around the room.

"You lost the bet, huh?"

"What?" She asked, stopping her wandering by his left bed railing.

"To make the token visit to the crazy boss. You lost."

"I came because I wanted to."

"Sure."

"Doctor Cameron asked me to come." Hadley admitted. "She's got her hands full this week covering for another Doctor. But I don't mind."

House shrugged. "This place isn't so bad. Three squares and if I play sick, I get a sponge bath.' He pointed to the end of his bed. "Check my chart. I've been on good behavior and I want to know what's for lunch."

Hadley retrieved the single paper clipped to the end of Houses' bed. "Chicken cutlet, whipped potatoes, peas and apple Jell-O."

"Wow." House said. "I _really_ hate this place." He looked away to ask the next question. "Wilson still mad at me?"

"He was never mad at you."

"Stuck me in here."

"That's because he especially cares, not that you deserve it."

"If everyone always deserved it, caring would never be _especial._ How's the kid?"

"Stable but no different. His family's with him."

"So - he's _worse_."

"We're missing something."

"Ya' think?"

"Kutner thinks it's an allergy."

"Kutner's an idiot."

-

-

-

"Doctor House - " Psychiatrist Doctor Duhlman began his verbal list with a great sigh.

Wilson could imagine the battle of wills that had occurred between the two physicians since Houses' admittance several days previous into Duhlmans' world. The psychiatrist looked haggard.

" - is a royal pain in the neck." Duhlman continued "He's egotistical and self-centered. He displays outrageously inappropriate humor including bigotry. He is also defensive and though he wouldn't admit it, I believe he displays many of the classic behaviors of an adult survivor of childhood physical and perhaps even psychological abuse. He refused all cognitive therapies and juggled his food including," Duhlman looked especially perturbed, "the _pudding_. In short he is, in my medical opinion, an enormous _ass_."

Doctor Duhlman closed the thick file in his hand, leaned back and shifted his posterior into a more comfortable position on his important looking, padded chair. "However the one thing he is not is crazy."

Sitting across from him with a certain expectation of dread Wilson blinked, not sure he'd heard right. "_Not_ crazy? But-"

Duhlman opened the file again and turned to the psychological profile he had painstakingly gathered and tested out for himself. "Though you may or may not realize it, Doctor House is, despite his childish antics and rude behavior, a rare genius. His ability to retain and associate divergent information - to bring together seemingly opposing ideas into a cohesive sense, is extremely un-usual." Duhlman explained not without admiration.

"We already _know_ he's smart." Wilson insisted.

Duhlman removed his glasses thoughtfully, replaced them and read directly from the file. "His innate intelligence combined with his very obvious extensive and diverse education makes him almost a savant, particularly where his specialty is concerned. Although it appears that he is able to make leaps of logical based on intuition alone, he does in fact utilize the many facets of his brain, both logical and abstract to reach the correct conclusions. That combined with very astute observations of human psychology and his twenty or more years as a physician makes him for lack of a better description, a born Diagnostician."

"So you're saying he's too smart to be nuts?"

Duhlman addressed Wilson. "Not hardly." He said frankly. "I'm saying such a person is often perceived by others as a little off-balance and such observations are often correct. House is an eccentric individual and without a doubt an emotionally isolated man. He _acts_ insane. He's a man who gives all the appearances of someone who now and again, loses touch with reality, sometimes intentionally in my judgement, but is he in fact _crazy_? No."

"But the hallucinations, the talking to himself, the violent rages - the clumsiness?"

"Yes, the clumsiness." Duhlman frowned. Wilson got the impression he had insulted the doctor in some way. "Taking into account the pain Doctor House lives with daily, the pain med's which naturally exert some influence over his bodies motor controls, and that he is forced to amble with a pronounced limp, is all _anyone_ would ever need to be occasionally clumsy. And, other than being somewhat unsteady on his feet, House actually moves very well for a man with such a disability." Duhlman brought that part of his lecture to a hard close with a clearing of his throat.

Wilson could almost hear the unspoken _you_ _idiot!_ with his name on it. "I k-know House has pain-"

"-a _lot_ of pain, Doctor Wilson." Again Wilson heard the unspoken chastisement sent his way via Duhlmans' quiet manner. _You're an oncologist_, Duhlman seemed to be implying. _How can you not understand what pain can do to a person?_ "Pain can alter perception, do odd things sometimes to ones' mind. The cumulative effects of chronic pain, fatigue, over-work, stress, all of it can lead to what I think Doctor House is suffering."

"What _is_ he suffering?"

"Why depression of course."

Again Wilson heard the_ idiot! _He suddenly felt lost. "House says he isn't."

"Well, naturally he would deny it."

"Why deny it? Why not get help?"

Duhlman suggested quietly, "Perhaps he's afraid he would be locked up?"

Duhlman, in a gesture of forgiveness to his rather dim-witted visitor, leaned forward again and finger-fiddled his thick glasses. "Doctor Wilson, whatever is causing these other symptoms," Duhlman continued, "they are not the result of any psychological disturbance that I can determine. In my opinion their origin is purely physical."

While Wilson chewed over the frustratingly opposing results of Chase and Duhlmans' tests, Duhlman flipped to near the end of the thick file in his hand. "My conclusion is," Duhlman read his own words aloud: "that because Doctor House has suffered a recent and very serious head injury and has struggled with ongoing health issues for many years, not least of which is an addiction to prescription pain medications and, according to his fellow physician Doctor Wilson, has attempted suicide twice within the last two years..." Duhlman removed his glasses again and extemporaneously summed it up. "Could House use some counseling? Absolutely. He's depressed, possibly even clinically so, but he's not crazy."

Wilson rubbed his temples.

Duhlman added thoughtfully, "There is one possibility - a way to account for the hallucinations - the visions if you will..."

Wilson attempted to massage away the headache behind his eyes. "Yes?"

"Palinopsia. It's a visual disturbance that causes an image to persist to some extent, even after its corresponding stimulus is no longer present. Most people with normal vision experience this at one time or another. You've probably done so yourself - looked at an object or photo under bright light, your mind then seeing the negative after-image of that object on a wall?"

Wilson nodded.

Duhlman held out one raised palm of warning. "Now, remember this is just a _possibility,_ but a person with a severe type of Palinopsia experiences this effect to a significantly greater degree, to the point where the images become difficult or impossible to ignore. This often results in mild to severe anxiety and/or depression or it can develop as a result of brain injury and the confusion, the sense that one is seeing things can convince a person he is losing his mind or convince others that he is. Because of the stress this can bring, the disorder itself can become a causal factor in depression."

"House would recognize it if he was experiencing Palinopsia. The things he is seeing and hearing he insists are _real_."

"If not for his recent very serious head injury, I would agree that it is unlikely Doctor House is confabulating false memories from real memories but I would also encourage you at this point, Doctor Wilson, not to rule it out as a possibility. From the medical file Doctor Cuddy provided, it is clear that physically Doctor House is a _mess_. He is only just recently gaining back some relative health. It is certainly possible at least that he's experiencing sensory hallucinations that all seem very real to him."

"But he displayed nothing of the kind until lately."

"He may have been hiding it. Or it may not have manifested itself to this extreme degree until now. Trauma, by the way, is also a causal factor in this type of visual hallucinations - feelings of terrible confusion can surface. You must understand, Houses' on-going pain, the vehicular accident, which he is probably reliving nightly during sleep, these kinds of traumatic episodes often have long term physical and psychological consequences - ones often dismissed by the medical community.

"In Houses' case, it may not be Palinopsia at all, it may simply be some residual photo-manifestations of the traumas in question, coupled with pain, stress - it is not all that unusual for a crash victim to get memories mixed up in his head. House could be confusing events of that day and those that followed with things happening now. The human brain is a remarkable machine but it is vulnerable. Once physically damaged, that damage is irreversible."

Wilson nodded, accepting Duhlmans' gentle insistence that he was probably a grand idiot for not considering any alternative other than House going crazy while they watched. "So he's messing up his memories and maybe seeing things that were there but now aren't?"

"Possibly and, if so, technically they're not hallucinations. Some of those memories might simply be too painful for him to face."

"He might be hiding from something?" What to House would be worth hiding from? Wilson asked himself.

"Perhaps from things he doesn't want to see. So the question is: What is it Doctor House is so desperately trying _not_ to see?"

Wilson could only guess but all he knew is they were back to square one. House was at the very least, emotionally ill and they had no idea to what extent.

Duhlman continued. "But as far as his mental state, he's as fit as you or I, and so I'm releasing him. I have written him a 'script for Seconal to help him resume a more normal sleep pattern. My advice to you is to have Cuddy grant him a leave of absence, keep an eye on him and make the man get some _proper_ rest. Then if we need to, we can go from there."

-

-

-

Wilson took a deep breath and entered Houses' room. House was already in his jeans and was pulling a tee-shirt over his head. Before Wilson could say a word, House said, "Yeah, I'm sprung."

"Duhlman told me."

"Did he also tell you I'm not crazy?"

Wilson nodded, feeling a little guilty but his worry over Houses' sensory confusion or auditory hallucinations or the combination of the two that House had experienced were still cause for worry. "Any more hallucinations?"

House threw dagger blues at him. "Oh, you're a piece of work."

"It's a simple question, House."

House pulled on his sneakers without lacing them up, the laces having been removed by the orderlies for safety reasons. "Duhlman's almost as annoying as you but he was easier to get rid of."

Wilson asked, "Did you lie to him? Is that why he's setting you loose so soon? Did you agree to counsel or shock therapy because honestly, House, we can't tell anymore whether you're crazy or just a pathological liar - and I'm not sure which is worse."

"I'm going on a bender - "

"Terrific. Perfect way to help yourself: get shit-faced and vomit all over your car." Wilson looked at his shoes and folded his hands in front of him in a subconscious plea for House to stay or listen. It was all he had left. "House, we had good reason to be concerned - you were _talking_ to yourself."

When Wilson looked up again, House was already gone. "And now me too."

_-_

_-_

_-_

Kutner called. "House, the kid's way worse."

"You mean worse than just a minute ago or worse over night?"

"Just a minute ago, actually."

"So I have time to stop on my drive in? H won't die in that time?"

"Yeah, I mean no."

"I'll bring bagels. Low-fat for you, right?"

-

-

-

-

House tossed the bag of bagels at Hadley but with a nod at Kutner. "Don't give the weight challenged guy more than one."

"I'm not fat." Kutner protested.

"Right. I may _look_ tall, but you're just sitting down."

"Jerk." Kutner remarked.

"See? I just needed to prove the point that I'm perfectly normal." House said while pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Kid?"

Taub said, "He's like his doctor - _not_ normal. His heart rate spiked an hour ago and we're keeping it near normal with esmolol hydrochloride but now he's developed a rash."

"Fever?"

"That among other things is why the parents brought him in but the fever's gone."

House stared, amused, as the pagers for all three of his underlings beeped. Taub read his aloud. "Kid's fever is back."

"And his heart rate's rising again." Hadley added.

"Mmmm." He reached out and snatched Kutners' bagel from his fingers. "Breakfast can wait. Get a blood gas test and scratch him."

"Scratch him?" Kutner wasn't up on all of Houses' particular medical short-hand.

"Poke a lot of holes in him and see if he itches, swells, rashes out or hurts. And when I say hurts, I_ don't _mean because of the holes."

House waited thirty minutes then followed them, munching on his second bagel.

-

-

-

Kutner looked annoyed when House entered, half eaten bagel in hand and the bag in his other.

"When _you_ buy them, _you_ get to decide who eats first." House said. "Blood gas?"

"Within normal range." Taub answered. He had a stethoscope against the unconscious boy's thin chest.

Taub said "Heart rate's one-fifty-two."

"That's high, even for a kid his age." Hadley said. She had the boy on his side and was busy with the allergy test. "No reaction so far."

House nodded. "Any visiting friends? Favorite toys? Girly stuffed animals?"

"No one's been here but the family."

"Are you sure they didn't bring in anything?"

Kutner and the others exchanged glances. Hadley spoke for them, "No, but so far the scratch test is giving all negative results."

"Wow, you're quick." House looked at Kutner. "See that? It's because she's thin."

"I may _look_ fat, but only because you're skinny." Kutner answered evenly, recognizing from his short experience working under him that House was bored with the case and was trying to amuse himself.

"Touche." House said. "_Finally_."

"Touch-_**ed**_."Kutner muttered back. "His sister's been the most frequent visitor."

"Is that supposed to mean someth-?" House stopped. "Tell me you checked whether or not _she _was sick?"

Hadley shook her head. "We already thought of that."

"Did you think he might have an allergy to _her_?"

"Person to person allergies are extremely rare." Taub said.

"Rare means few and far between, it doesn't mean never. If it did, you would have no cause to say _rare_. Hey- Mister Big Boned." House tossed the bag of bagels to Kutner. "Get the sister in here. Check him against her sweat, saliva and any other bodily fluids they might have exchanged. Kids still play doctor these days, don't they?"

-

-

-

-

"How's the patient?" Cuddy asked. House watched her seat herself at his desk, across from him. "And by patient, I don't mean Elvis."

"Elvis isn't a patient anymore. And by Elvis I mean _me_ - which I wouldn't have been to begin with if any of you idiots had just listened to me."

"We did. _That's_ why you went to Psyche'. And I meant your actual patient - the boy?"

"He's better. Allergic to his sweet sisters' sweat. Increased heart-rate, swelling, rash and fever. Easy to see it if you look in the right place and by that I mean _not_ at the patient. No one else caught it because he had a sickness with no obvious cause. See what I did there? I spoke about him but again I actually meant me."

"_He's_ getting treatment."

"_He's_ actually sick." House leaned back in his chair. "He was sick, but _she_ was the patient. Weird, huh?"

Cuddy didn't smile. "Are _you_ all right?"

House was staring passed her, beyond her to something she did not see. Not the way he seemed to see things. Not the way House thought of things. Cuddy could almost discern the lightbulb popping into view above his head. House was having one of his wide-eyed moments of revelation. "He was sick but was not the _actual _patient." He muttered.

"You already said that."

"I know." House looked back at her and Cuddy was shocked to see the transformation in his expression. Smugness to shock in two seconds flat. "Elvis lives."

"_What?"_

"And he never left the building."

XXX

Part V ASAP


	5. Chapter 5

TWICE THE MAN

Part V

Summary: Wilson/House centric. Paranormal-ish. Episodic, sort of. Implied _**character death. **_Wilson suspects there is something very wrong with House.

Pairing: House/Wilson _**Bro**_mance.

Rating: General. Some language.

Disclaimer: Gregory House is not mine, dammit!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cuddy sighed, exasperated. "There's nothing wrong with Doctor Wilson, House."

"Yes there is. There has to be."f

"No there doesn't have to be. You're looking for an excuse, a way out, to explain your own recent bizarre behavior. If Wilson is sick, then - _Look everyone! - House was right again. About everything!" _Cuddy slammed her backside down onto her office chair. "House, if Wilson was sick the way you think he is, he would have asked for a leave of absence, or a few days off. He would have told _me, _because an employee has to tell me if their medical condition changes. Wilson hasn't. His regular billing came through my desk, unlike yours, on schedule and as right as rain. So I don't care what you think you know - you _don't_ know. Leave him alone. It's pleasant to have one doctor in this hospital at least who puts in his billing on time. I'd like to keep it that way."

Cuddy looked down at her own paperwork. "I want you to take a leave of absence."

House stopped pacing. "What the hell for?"

"Because I'm putting in the paperwork right now. you need to go home, rest, recuperate, watch television, drink - whatever it is you need to do to stop obsessing. If you refuse, I'll recommend a suspension to the Board for any number of reasons you've given me lately. As you probably are aware, they would hardly argue _against_ the idea."

-

-

By the time he reached his office, the numbness in his leg had returned once more. Wilson sat in his swivel desk chair and thought about it. He thought about a lot of things. Houses' patient had all but vanished from the equation, it seemed, because House had not mentioned him in over a day - the patient House thought Wilson had sent to him, the patient House was trying but unable to diagnose.

_What or who was House trying __**not**__ to see by seeing me?_

Wilson stood to pace but felt a terrific dizziness come over him. The room spun and he fell hard on his backside, which so knocked the breath out of him he had to sit and get his bearings for a moment. However, at the same moment, something in his inner world straightened out. Wilson sat staring at his hands and feet, trying to place them back in their correct positions and order in his head.

His mind refused to acknowledge them. Then its' momentary lapse of reason passed and he felt himself again, whole and set right.

Wilson stood on feet that shook but a mind that was now seeing the world through Houses' special vision - specifically himself in that world - and he understood. Everything - Houses' mysterious patient (Wilson hesitated to call them hallucinations now), visions of himself talking to House when he was in fact nowhere near the diagnostician, his own foots' stubbornness to wake up, the ever returning dizziness, his lingering exhaustion, the frequent dropping of things and all the other tiny clues he had been dismissing while targeting House with mostly misplaced worry and assumptions. . .

His own eyes were suddenly open wide where before they had refused to look anywhere, even for a moment, for an explanation beyond the health issues he was so certain had belonged to House alone. Wilson understood the why of it now and it was _his_ Why, because no matter where he looked all the whys looked back at him.

Wilson eased himself back into his seat. It had to be, didn't it? It made sense. As the room ceased its spinning and he settled into the padding of his chair, he wondered if really he had know known all along? Gripped by terror of the why and the unknown that was its companion, Wilson made his quiet confession to the walls. "House. I don't know how or why, but I think I understand what you've been trying so hard not to see. "

_And I know which idiot has been even more blind than you. _

_-_

"Chase, would you mind checking this?" Wilson handed him a tiny vial with a single hair in it.

Chase took the tiny vial in his fingers and directed a puzzled look at Wilson. "We already did Houses' DNA check. The results were negative."

"Just please check it for me, same parameters. There's no hurry, I'm pretty sure I already know the results."

"Okay. Couple of days."

-

Cuddy did not speak for a moment. "Are you absolutely certain?"

Wilson nodded. Finally, he was. "Yes. Chase did the tests for me. I'm _positively_ certain."

"I'm sorry." She sat at her desk with a heaviness this kind of news brought. Wilson sympathized. It really knocked the breath out of you. "Are you going to tell him?" She asked.

They both knew to whom she was referring and Wilson smiled ironically. "Maybe I don't have to." _Or maybe I just don't want to. _"I'm more concerned that he isn't . . .that someone keeps . . .an close eye on him."

"I'll make sure he's okay." Cuddy said. "We all will."

Wilson watched Houses' team wandering around the conference room. Since their boss had been granted a short leave of absence, they found themselves adrift with nothing but clinic duties and so no specific purpose for being there. The patient, the real one, the child, was better and had been discharged but without Houses' charged presence and direction, there were no challenges for them. Whatever type of an ass House was, whatever outspoken thing escaped his lips at their expense, they were all astute enough to recognize they were working under a man who was worth the trouble. As big a jerk as House sometimes was, he grew on you until, when he was no longer there, you felt less without him.

Chase and Cameron had proved the point even more so by leaving. Since that time, Cameron sought out opportunities to be around House and for reasons beyond her doe- eyed feelings.

And Chase, despite House firing him, went out of his way to assist House in any way he could. Inexplicably, they cared for him. House was a man you either hated or loved. There seemed to be little in between. Even Foreman, all protestations to the contrary, still held a solid respect for the man.

Wilson was not in any way surprised. He'd been away from House for months trying to wash his conflicting emotions over House out of his system and had failed miserably. He'd come back to the relationship even more caught up than before. He'd felt empty after Amber died. But he'd felt emptier without House.

Wilson sighed. He'd already called his parents, he'd already made an appointment with Doctor Helfin the specialist and in a weeks time he'd be in California. He was going to tell House of course, just not everything and not right away. House had already seen enough people walk out on him in his life. But this wasn't a walk out. In this he had no choice.

-

-

-

-

Several days off and a few bottles later, House poured a tumbler half full of scotch and socked back half of it. He was surprised Wilson had not followed him home to make sure he got there all safe and sound and sane or come over to lecture him on his drink and other vices. There was nothing wrong. Wilson was just being even more _Wilson_ than usual.

"I have."

House jumped up from the couch as fast as his leg would allow. His cane he had left hooked over the edge of his piano and it was out of his reach. Wilson, standing there inside his apartment, door already closed to the outside, looked pale and tired.

"How the hell did you-?"

"-House." Wilson said gently. "Look."

Wilson was dragging his left leg slightly. House stared at his friend. "What the hell is going on? Cuddy thinks I think I know someth-"

"House, _look_ at me. I'm Wilson."

House swallowed his apprehension, believing but not. Eyes open but refusing to see. "I know who you are. What are you-? _Are_ you oka-?"

"-it's me, House. I'm the one who's been hiding."

"Hiding?" House watched the erratic movements of his friend around the couch as he soundlessly approached him. Other than his voice Wilsons' movements were silent, even his breathing remained as mute as his meaning. "You think so too."

"I didn't want you to worry. I didn't want you to have any more pain because of me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm going away. I will tell you it's my family but we both know that's not the reason."

House looked further, deeper into his friend, the physical part, the psychological part, the part that never admitted when he wasn't handling everything just right. House stared to the center of the man he had known more deeply than anyone else in his life and knew. He saw and hated that he recognized the truth. "No. I'm _wrong._ This doesn't make sense. It can't be you."

But hadn't he known all along? He, the man who hated not knowing, had seen what was happening not to a nameless man, not to himself, but to his friend. Was _this_ man his friend? Was this even a _man_ or...?

Wilson said, "Wow, humility for me? You really do love me. But I want to protect you. I don't want to walk away again because-"

"- because this time you're not coming back." _This time he can't come back. _House switched his mind over to clinical details because the other things, the parts that made his insides swell in dread and pain, he refused to acknowledge. He, the man who said it often: Everybody dies.

No. Not _this_ man.

"You were in denial just as much as I was." Wilson laughed. "We each believed it was the other."

"Why wouldn't I want to know you were sick?"

"Because it's something you can't treat. Can't cure. Because you would want to save me and you know that's impossible but that wouldn't stop you from almost killing yourself trying. Because you can't bear to face losing me, just like I couldn't bear losing you."

"You _don't_ have ALS. And even if you did, there are treatments, programs, trials..."

"I had my own DNA checked. I have the markers, I have the symptoms. There are treatments and programs and trials and I'll use them all but...I'm going home." Wilson walked nearer, his slightly shuffling gate underlining that House could deny all he liked, but Wilson was telling him the truth, boldly, nakedly - and it _hurt!_

"Come on, House. You were convinced it was ALS when "Elvis" was on the table. You're the Diagnostic Master. You know you're right and you know there's nothing you can do about it."

Wilson walked ever nearer but not close enough to touch. Wilson had never touched him, he recalled, during all the weird clandestine meetings they had held together. Wilson had always stood apart. House swallowed his fear and doubt but how he despised that distance now.

House did not try to close the gap now. In fifteen years, they had hardly ever touch each other. Wilson was now far beyond his reach and that made Houses blood run cold.

"I don't want you to know." Wilson said. "I want to spare you from the pain. I really am a girl, aren't I?"

Wilson stared into Houses' eyes with his brown, eerily Wilson-perfect manifestations. "Talk to me. Wish me well, ask me to say hello to my parents for you. Pretend I'm coming back. I'll tell you all the truth you want when the time is right for me."

"When will that be?" House asked bitterly, "When you're halfway around the world where I can't help you?"

"When I'm strong enough to bear it. Go say goodbye to your best friend, House. That's all you can do you know. The diagnosis is done. There is no treatment, there's only words. I know you hate lies. But this one last time, I need you to lie for me. I need to believe you'll be okay."

House made neither a move nor a promise.

Wilson was close now, just a few feet away. House could smell no cologne, could feel no breath, could hear no beat of his heart. "Who - _what_ are you?"

"I need for you to be okay or I never will be."

House looked away, not wanting his almost belief to make him really, actually crazy. Because no one believes in ghosts or astral projections or Doppelgangers. "Just tell me one thing - are you Wil-?"

House stepped forward to touch his friend but he found himself, in the wink of second, alone in his apartment. His heart raced to the awful finish and insisted that what he had seen was real. His mind protested and said it was the contents of the bottle on the coffee table, his broken skull or his sleeping pills.

It could be nothing else, but then again, there are no atheists in fox holes.

House would prove it was all just a dream because Wilson _cannot _be sick.

-

-

-

"The door's open." Wilson said at the gentle, almost timid knock.

It was House.

Houses' appearance in his office, never an unexpected occurrence, was this time out of the ordinary in its' nature. House was wearing his usual jeans and tee-shirt but his manner was anything but casual.

Wilson wanted to smile, wanted to laugh and pretend this was just another time - one of those times - when House was doing or had done something outrageous or just frankly stupid and landed himself in hot water with Cuddy, a rich benefactor or a bad-ass cop. Or when House was running around like a maniac with a head injury or a toxic combination of drugs and alcohol in his system, and crashed hard, leaving the unhappy nurse assistants with the job of rooter-rootering the various pipes through out Houses' body in order to flush it all out.

Wilson wished it was one of those times, where House had squeaked through and was ready to scarf down several unhealthy hamburgers and imbibe a beer or six to wash them down. Or Tai food night, or Christmas eve' when House wasn't crumbling beneath his own stubbornness or even if he was. Because this time Wilson wouldn't leave. He'd stay and make sure the lovable, idiotic, juvenile SOB was okay.

He wished for new good old days.

But House was here, just after a week on the psyche ward claiming no hallucinations after which he had spent the previous weeks talking to another Wilson who wasn't there and who, ironically, stubbornly refused to go away and leave Greg House alone.

Duhlman had sprung him but Wilson could imagine the wrinkle that had formed between Cuddy's eyebrows when she'd found out and her clipped, weary words_: "Who'd you bribe?" _

"Going home huh?"

Wilson nodded, wondering how House had found out so soon but not all that surprised that he had. "Yeah. For a while. You going to take Duhlmans' recommendation of therapy while I'm gone?"

"Nope. He's too expensive and the only thing I have to trade is my body and that's mine until you buy me a ring."

House came all the way in and Wilson didn't stop packing his boxes. He felt like he had spent half his life packing boxes. Always moving on even when, like now, he didn't want to.

"How are you?" House asked. He didn't sit and Wilson felt unsettled about that. House was hovering, a thing he did when he was digging, sifting, attempting to uncover what was covered. His restless feet, crippled leg or not, matched his restless mind.

"Okay. I'm-"

"-Yeah." House finished. "I know. Cuddy told me. Tomorrow."

Wilson tried desperately to keep his manner casual, even bored, and his voice as level as a salt water lake. "I haven't spent any time with my family for years. I decided to take a six month leave of absence and try to do that." Wilson closed the box of books he intended to take away with him. "Before they get too old."

House nodded, his silence a killing air.

"This is surreal." Wilson said, trying to stuff the great emptiness of his soul with talk. "You're standing in the middle of my office, just after a stint on psych ward - where you were because you were hallucinating -"

"-Not hallucinating." House acceded with a small head tilt. "Not really."

"Then what have you been doing - scaring us all to death for a laugh?"

"I've been trying to work something out."

"Did you?" Wilson closed the last box. "Work it out?"

"Yes."

"So? What's the big answer to the question we've all been asking?"

"I'm over-worked, the leg's been worse, the crack in my skull, _day-dreams_, take your pick - why _now_?"

Wilson very carefully didn't look at him. "I need to see them. You're dad died and it got me to thinking about my parents. My oldest brother's running his business, youngest brothers' gone God knows where..." Wilson stopped squirreling away items into his briefcase and stood, hands on hips, trying to relax while all the time he felt if House accidentally bumped him, he'd snap in two. "They need me."

"_I _need you." House blurted, then looked down at his hands. Wilson was floored to see House actually fidget. He was nervous. More than nervous, he was desperate. "n' you need _me_."

Wilson nodded. "I know." He stared at House and something, a flicker, a flash of insight was there in Houses' eyes and so in his own. A shared knowledge too hard to voice.

But House knew, Wilson was sure of it. But if he didn't speak of it, maybe House would let him get away clean. He might be able to make this break without wanting to cling to House like a child wishing the world would just start spinning backwards until everything was right again. House would mock such a wish.

But, - god - at the very least, for a moment he would wish for it. Then he wished they were, right then, in a bar somewhere, laughing like they used to, he listening to Houses' animated run-down of his case and what the "idiot" fellowships had done or neglected to do,_ idiot_ being just a word they had all come to know was a House word. No one took it seriously anymore.

Instead he was sick and without any debate, was going to get sicker. He was going away and would not be coming back. His parents and his insurance would take care of his future..._care_.

And he would never see his friend again. If House acknowledged that he knew the truth and begged Wilson to stay, Wilson was certain he would never be able to put one foot in front of the other and make his exit. He would stay for House and House would have to watch him get sick and die and he would have to watch House kill himself trying to save him. Wilson could bear the idea of Houses' death even less than his own. However ignorant it was to the reality, the world was a much better place with House in it.

House was sick too, but the Palinopsia he would probably recover from, if that's what was wrong. House would be okay.

House watched Wilson move around the room. The minutes were ticking by and the clock steadily reminded them both it was almost time for Wilson to go. "So California huh?"

Wilson looked at his friend with tenderness. If House knew, he wasn't saying. House had read the lie and understood its true meaning. A parting gift from House and Wilson loved him for it.

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. San-Francisco."

"You'll send me a number and address?" House wasn't _going_ to say either. He was going to keep the heart of the lie beating for as long as Wilson needed it.

House was not being himself for Wilson, not demanding an answer. Instead before his eyes House metamorph-ed into that gentle creature he sometimes became to let Wilson go with kindness - free him from the burden of having to explain why he would never return and why the only way he could stand the thought of that was to lie about it to his face.

Now his heart was breaking. "Sure. 'Course." Wilson assured him and if House would have allowed it, he would have kissed him right then. But this small orbit of friendship is how it would be. This is the way they each had to say goodbye to half a lifetime of friendship. Wilson, to the man he loved above almost any other being on the planet, to his daily reason and joy.

"Just in case anything happens . . ." House added. "If Hector dies and you need me to come out and help you soak your troubled soul in alcohol..."

Wilson smiled at the joke outwardly for House while silently wondering when House had worked it all out. House knew he was sick. _House not only knows, he probably knows I know he knows._

And still House demanded nothing from him. He was free to go. House loved him enough to watch him go and even, if necessary, to give him wings.

_Come with me._ Wilson wanted to say but -

House stood up, breaking through Wilsons' thoughts, shattering the possibility. How many unspoken things, he wondered, had spilled out all over the floor while House observed from his quiet perch? _The sweet, lovable, miserable, marvelous son-of-a-bitch is playing his best card and I won't be around to tease him about it later._ "I'll call you as soon as I can."

House looked at his cane like it was only mildly less interesting than everything else that was in the room. "-Wish you didn't have to go."

Wilson heard the quick, clipped words. That must have hurt, letting that huge vulnerability peek its head out so far. That much sadness made visible implied a mountain of grief still buried. _I love you, you genius bastard._ His eyes stung and his throat ached from holding back a sob.

Wilson answered back just as quickly - even quicker, before his eyes and heart decided that this was just too much to pass up and cranked full open the waterworks. "Me too." Almost one syllable too many. He cleared his throat and the dam was locked tight.

It was time to go. This time he was not walking out of Houses' life to punish or cleanse or purge. This time he was doing it for a right reason. Still he hated having to. Still he wished House could just, could just . . .

This, _them,_ was nothing that was ending on purpose, only the things that had to an end in a certain way beyond his will. And it wasn't really ending, not really. Things like he and House...kept going, even if only in a fading memory.

Wilson slipped into his jacket and held out his hand for House to shake.

House looked down at it, taking it in an almost reverential manner, then gripped it tightly.

But suddenly Wilson knew with perfect clarity and good purpose that a handshake wouldn't be enough. Not from this man and not _for_ this man. House was worth ten hands and arms and everything he could give if it would make it easier. But all Wilson had to give was to draw House into a bear hug and say into his ear, "I love you. You know that, right?" He gave an extra squeeze on the last word.

He let him go and House stared back at him with those eyes so crystal blue and Wilson wondered how they managed to do that; look so goddamn beautiful and so goddawfully sad all at once. There was a touch of the supernatural in them, Wilson was convinced. Maybe in House too. "_Right? _You _**know**_ that?"

House nodded and nibbled his bottom his lip, making Wilson wonder just what words he had bit down on.

Wilson gathered up his small box of private items under one arm, reached out, snatched Houses' head in one hand and planted one firm kiss on his forehead. Then he walked away without looking back, not slowing down at all in hopes of making the hurt fade for both of them that much quicker. He feared if he stopped, even once, he would not be able to start again and House would dive in with all his brilliant mind and frail body trying to save Wilson from the inevitable, contrary to even his own convictions that everybody dies, so he dared not pause for even a second. It would change nothing and he could not do that to House.

He loved the idiot too much.

-

House watched his friend walk away down the hall. Suddenly Cuddy was at his side. She laced gentle fingers in his and squeezed. "But me a drink?" She asked.

House didn't tear his eyes away from Wilson until his friend turned a corner and was gone from sight. Then House looked down at his boss with watering eyes. His grief was simple and true and no surprise to Cuddy.

He nodded, sniffed and stood straighter. "Sure."

Cuddy walked with him in the opposite direction. It was still early but House had heartily earned an afternoon off.

Houses' eyes looked ahead. His limping stride was sure.

"Think Taub or Kutner," He asked "or any of those idiots might want to come?"

Cuddy held on tight. "I'm positive."

XXXX

END


End file.
